


Snowy Sunday

by Not_You



Series: Villainverse [7]
Category: Watchmen (Comic), Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Multi, Prequel, Racist Language, byron drinks, everyone is horrible, murderousness, no kink is safe with psycho!bill, warning: it's 1938
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 17:45:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Minutemen are horrible people having a nice Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Years later the situation will be cosmetically different. Same place, equally terrible people separated by time with Eddie as one of the only links. For now it's 1938 and they're lying low, everyone bored and edgy except for Sally, Hollis, and Eddie, tangled warmly together. It's weird, because it's kind of like they're his parents and they're all fucking, and if it's confusing sometimes it's pretty much always good. Hollis is in the middle of pressing a little kiss to each knob of his spine from the tailbone up while Sally jerks him nice and slow, red lipstick smile filling his hazy vision. Naturally, that's when Larry comes knocking at the door.

Hollis growls against Eddie's skin. "What do you want, Larry?"

"I want for someone to talk to me about the goddamn finances around here!" They all sit up and he kicks the door open without being asked, which he's allowed to do because he's the guy who does the laundry, and is therefore indispensable. "What the hell happened to the Star of Ceylon?! I was counting on that fucking thing to cover Byron's death ray!"

Sally coughs delicately, pulling a thin gold chain up from where the blanket covers her chest to reveal a pendant of blazing blue, too big to be anything but vulgar on anyone else. "Sal liked it." Hollis says, and shrugs. Eddie runs a hand through his messy hair and stretches like a cat, and Larry just groans. "You fucking guys. We're gonna have to borrow from the Mob, and I hope you're happy."

"Look, we can still move it." Sally says, hands going to take it off.

Hollis stops her with a gesture, and Larry sighs. He has less against Hollis than the rest of him, simply because presents for Sally are his only real weakness. No other girls, no drugs, no fuck-off big shiny focusing lenses for his goddamn death ray. What the hell is so wrong with a gun, is what Larry wants to know. "Keep it. We were gonna knock over that armored car next week, right?" Larry nods, defeated. "Well. We can last a week." He smiles. "If that goes south, we move the rock. Fair?"

Larry sighs, eyes crawling all over Sally. "Fair." He sees Eddie reaching for his gun, hung on the headboard, and ducks out again. Like a dog about to have a shoe thrown at it.

"Honey, he's not that bad." Sally says, taking his hand and kissing the palm. He just growls and lets her, then whimpers as Hollis's hand wraps around him where he's been hard through this entire conversation. His hips buck and Hollis chuckles, nibbling his ear. He says something to Sally about how they ought to do something about Eddie before he explodes, and practically before he knows what's going on he's sandwiched between them. He still has no idea how the hell they do this. It's like telepathy.

Hollis presses two fingers into him and he groans, hiding his face in Sally's tits. She strokes his hair and they both make soothing noises, knowing how embarrassed he still is about liking this. It would probably help if Hollis would give it up, but he maintains that he's waiting until Eddie has been on the receiving end enough to have some idea how to do it right. Eddie can't really blame him, considering the horror stories he's heard from girls his age about guys who can't even find their clits. Sally rolls a condom onto him and pulls him in, moaning softly as he presses as deep as he can, sobbing as Hollis crooks his fingers and adds another one.

"Goddammit, Hollis." He squeaks. "I can't take that, man. I can't fucking take that, just do it."  
"Okay." Hollis kisses the back of his neck and pushes into him, and sure it kind of hurts, but not enough to take the fun out of it. Hollis does this really tight, controlled kind of thing that feels fucking amazing and keeps moving him inside Sally even when he gets overloaded and is down to useless thrashing, like he is now. He knows he can't last, and they know he can't last, and that's all right. He's not even eighteen, it would be pretty fucking ridiculous to expect, which is what Sally had told him the first time. So he howls and comes without too much regret. Sally whimpers and kisses him, Hollis slowly sliding out. They let him tip onto his side and scoot away a little to recover and to watch, Hollis grabbing a condom and taking Eddie's place inside of five seconds.

He gets jealous sometimes, when they're fucking and he's watching, just because he can see how much history they have. How long they've been together, so they're almost one thing. Then Sally's eyes roll back in her head or Hollis lets out that pathetic moan that he can't help making whenever she really clamps down on him and he snaps out of it, remembering how privileged he is to watch. And how hard he's getting. "Hollis?"

It takes him a minute to respond. "Y-yeah?" Sally digs her nails into his back and he whines, hips slamming into her of their own accord. Eddie grabs the lube and kneels behind him, Sally spreading her legs a little wider to make it easier. 

"Just tell me if I'm terrible at this." Hollis tenses as one slick finger touches him, then forces himself to relax, panting.

"Sal? I probably have to quit moving for a minute here..."

"That's fine, sugar." She grins, reaching down to lazily stroke her clit. "I'm just going to watch the show."

Hollis whimpers, shaking as Eddie slides one finger in, his cock twitching because if he doesn't mess this up he'll be fucking Hollis, and that will be unbelievable. "Be gentle with him, he's delicate." Sally coos, and Hollis flushes and hides his face in her chest, duplicating Eddie's earlier reaction and making her laugh. It seems like it's true, though, and Eddie does his best. Soon he's got four fingers in Hollis's burning heat, making him groan and raise his hips a little. Sally shudders, and Hollis makes a formless, pleading noise when Eddie slides his fingers out.

"Relax, old man. I got you." He hurriedly slicks his cock and presses in, driving Hollis forward to start actually fucking Sally again. Jesus fucking Christ, it's about as amazing as he thought. He growls, and bites Hollis's neck. Hollis whimpers, one hand going down to join Sally's on her clit, and the three of them go off like a string of firecrackers.

Eddie catches his breath first and heads for the kitchen, always starving after a good screw. They seem to have worn Hollis out, because he just mumbles and snuggles Sally, who elects to remain with him. Eddie's hoping he'll have the place to himself, but of course Nelly and Rolf are there. They've apparently just had another fight, judging by Nelly's sprained wrist and the burns on Rolf. Still, they seem to have made it up, Nelly perched in Rolf's lap, feeding him bits of the leftover cannoli. Eddie gags, pulling out the milk and guzzling straight from the bottle because A: it tastes better that way, and B: it annoys Nelly. Sadly, he doesn't notice this time, and Eddie sighs. They're gonna go kill more hustlers, and Hollis hates that and Larry always threatens to leave. It also makes Sally sick to her stomach and particularly egregious cases can put her off sex for a week, which doesn't sweeten Hollis's mood in the slightest.

Eddie escapes as quickly as possible with two massive fucking sandwiches and the rest of the milk. Far be it from him to get sick when two guys make time, but for fuck's sake it wouldn't matter if Nelly was a girl, it would still be disgusting. The house used to belong to some relative of Byron's, so it's pretty fucking nice and Eddie has claimed the billiard room for his own purposes. Sure, everyone has the occasional game down there when there's nothing better to do, but it's still his. He tucks himself into a corner and gets to work on the food, actually enjoying the peace and quiet.

So naturally Byron has to come traipsing down the stairs, drunker than a fiddler's bitch. He's humming to himself and carrying his revolver, so best case scenario he's headed to his aunt's old room to shoot the heads off of religious porcelain statuettes, worst case Bill's gonna have to sit on him while Hollis takes the gun. Again. Eddie would prefer to forestall either. "Aw, c'mon!"

"Yes, Eddie darling?" His head swivels to look at Eddie with serpentine grace.

"Gunfire disturbs my digestion, man. Could you at least hold off for a bit?"

"Mm. I suppose. Because you're a growing boy." He sits on the edge of the billiard table, and then flops backward onto it. "What kind of sandwiches are those?"

"Kitchen sink sandwiches, if they've got a name. I just finished off the cold cuts, the pickles, and those two little hunks of cheese."

"...So there's pepperoni and honey ham in those? With camembert and asiago?"

"I guess. They're pretty weird."

Naturally, Byron finds this hilarious and practically laughs himself sick. "Eddie, you are a culinary terrorist!"

"I do my best."

"What was Larry twitching about?"

"Hollis gave Sal the Star of Ceylon. I mean, hell. It's nearly Christmas."

"That only puts us a little in the red, and fair's fair, Ursula got to give Dawn that gold collar we lifted."

"Yeah. If we screw up on the armored car she's gonna throw it back into the pot, though."

"Sensible." He takes a nip from his hip flask.

"Share the wealth?"

"If it won't give you a stomachache on top of that milk, sure."

"Cast iron, don't worry about it." He picks up his plate and goes so sit beside Byron, passing the flask back and forth. It's bourbon, and apparently a hundred goddamn years old.

"I always said I'd shoot the prohibs if they came for this stuff, but they never did."

"Can I get a hallelujah?" Eddie cracks. "Seriously, thank god."

"You can get a hallelujah, but you'll have to redeem your voucher with Bill." He starts snerkling helplessly again. "WASPs have lost the relevant muscle groups."

"Even nigger-lovers like you?"

"Even nigger-lovers like me."

"Rolf and Nelly are probably gonna kill a few bitches."

"Again? Thank god they don't like black boys or I'd be sunk."


	2. Chapter 2

Miles from their opulent safehouse, Mrs. Gordon Lynch is standing within four feet of a murderer. She's not at all aware of it as she cleans her rhinestone-trimmed glasses and tells him all about her cats. They're waiting for someone to come and help the poor checkout girl (about sixteen, brand new and harassed) figure out the register. Her new acquaintance is not impatient, even though what has to be his Christmas turkey is slowly defrosting. He even seems genuinely interested in Angel Paws's third litter, all just now opening their eyes. He tells her about barn cats in the hayloft of some distant home, little confused puffballs of black and orange and white all piping in their tiny voices, and their long lean mother beside them, slit pupils pooled out into roundness as they nursed.

His voice is slow and golden, and it even calms the poor checkout girl. Mrs. Lynch has to assume they're feeling the same variation on a theme. Where a mad, vain wish to be thirty years younger comes over her when she notices the little gold flecks in his eyes, she's sure the girl is wishing she were five years older and six thousand years more sophisticated, and she smiles. The manager comes over and sorts things out, and her new acquaintance gives the kid an encouraging word before helping her carry everything to the car, and hands that broke the necks of three bank guards in St. Louis hold the door for her as she climbs in. He tells her it was nice meeting her and wishes her a pleasant day and a merry Christmas. He shuts it carefully, not catching the hem of her dress or making too much noise. She looks at him in the rearview as she drives off and thinks that maybe chivalry isn't dead after all.

Bill sighs, loading everything into the back seat. It'll all roll around more, but he had had to dump that dead cop on the way here, and darn it, that's just not sanitary. He whistles as he pulls out of the parking lot, headed back home. Or as close as any of them have got. It'll be nice to have Christmas dinner like normal people, even if Ursula is Jewish and will inevitably get into a fight with Rolf and Byron will go off about materialism at the drop of a hat. Hollis will appreciate the effort and the sentiment, Sal loves Christmas the way a little kid does, Eddie practically is a little kid and is refreshingly grateful to those who feed him.

Bill just enjoys the holidays. The lights, the food, the temporary goodwill, all of it. He even likes the music, even if it drives everyone else nuts before the whole thing is over. Besides, no ever expects to be killed right around Christmas, so it's easier. He finds it appropriate that his favorite activity and time of year go so well together, and is humming "Jingle Bells" as he unloads everything. Byron comes stumbling up the stairs and beams when he sees him, arms flung wide in overjoyed greeting. Bill knows Byron drinks too much, but he's cute as hell when he gets like this.

"Bill!" He sashays over and almost knocks a sack of potatoes off the counter, tripping and letting Bill catch him as gracefully a professional dancer. He looks up at him with those wide, starlit eyes, and Bill wonders again if he's queer. Himself, not Byron. Byron likes both, frequently admiring Hollis's ass and bemoaning Ursula's solid lesbianism in the same breath. Byron grins. "Thanks, pal."

"Anytime." He brings him back to an upright posture, then leads him to sit quietly at the kitchen table while he gets everything into the refrigerator, which he's still not used to. Byron watches him, glowing with bourbon. Bill tells him about his day, and about the news reports (there's still hardly anyone who knows what they look like, always good) and about how he talked to an old lady about cats for what had to have been twenty minutes. Byron laughs, and then warns him about HJ and Nelly. He sighs. He understands. Really, he does. Sometimes the only thing you need in the world is that look of holy cow I'm actually dying, right here and now on another person's face, but still. He has never left a body in the bathtub, to be found by poor Dawn who's really not crazy enough to deal with something like that first thing in the morning. Still, it had been funny to watch Ursula beat Rolf up.

Bill is beautiful. He looks like he should be escorting old ladies across streets or rescuing kittens or recruiting for the Army. That he actually does the first two only makes the complete perversity of Nature placing so sick and deviant an intellect in so fair a form more delightful. He watches him string teeth like popcorn, and wonders if the sick bastard will try to put them on the tree. There are times when Bill doesn't even seem to notice how deranged he is, and those might be the times Byron loves him the most.

"Aren't they pretty?" He finally asks, holding them up like they're fake pearls or beads or something normal, eyes alight.

"Yeah, kid." Ursula taps a thin black cigarette into a Ming vase, looking like some dreamy abstraction of a charcoal sketch, black and white and hardly there at all. "Real pretty."

Byron smiles and takes another slug of bourbon, because it makes it easier not to pounce on the big lunatic. He's got it bad and that ain't good and it certainly ain't getting any better. Ursula gives him a knowing look, and Bill hums O Little Town of Bethlehem and works on another strand, oblivious.

Some faggots need all the help they can get, so it's Ursula who suggests Bill join them in a drink. For a guy his size, he's kind of a lightweight, and she smiles over the rim of her glass as he giggles. It's really a disturbing kind of sound, and frequently coincides with homicide, but now he just tips and rests his head on Byron's knee. Ursula give Byron a Look, with the little raise of one eyebrow that means 'I double-dog dare you, Yankee' and gets up, murmuring a goodnight and blowing Bill a smoke ring and a kiss. He waves, and she saunters off, smirking a little and wondering if Byron will actually finally say something. Bill's too psycho for her tastes, even if he was a girl, but he's a sweet kid and she knows the clueless hulk likes Byron.

"Y'know, Byron, I like you."

"I like you, Bill." The exchange is asinine, but they're both sauced, and god, he's got the most beautiful fucking eyes...

"How did you figure out you were queer?"

"Bisexual."

"That sounds like a disease. Half-queer? You know what I mean."

"I kind of always knew, which is probably why I got beat up so much."

A shadow crosses Byron's face, and Bill is sorry he asked. Fuzzy and warm and guilty, Bill hugs him tightly, awkwardly on his knees his head practically in Byron's lap. “It’s okay. Now you’ve got us. …And a death ray.”

He's petting Bill almost before he knows it, and laughs. "And a death ray." The crew cut under his fingers is like fur, and Bill purrs like a cat.

"And really nice hands." Bill murmurs. "All... soft. And pretty."

"I was just thinking the same thing about your hair. Christ, I'm potted."

"I think I am too. It'd only be the second time."

"Really?"

He nods, and tells Byron about being beaten for stealing his father's liquor. Then he tells Byron about killing his old man, voice dreamy and disconnected as he nuzzles into Byron's hand. "I cut him up real bad. Reeeeaal bad. Fed what was left to the pigs." He giggles again, and Byron can't help but join in.

"Oh, Bill. You're such a fucking basketcase." He leans down and kisses the top of his head without thinking about it, nuzzling into that silky fuzz. Bill purrs and looks up, and a moment later they're kissing by some silent and mysterious mutual agreement. It's as if they do this all the time, and Bill rises up on his knees so Byron doesn't have to lean down so far, devouring his mouth.

"Wow." He says softly, murmuring against Byron's lips. "I guess I am half-queer."

"G-good." He kisses Bill again, and only stops to squeak in surprise when Bill scoops him up into his arms like a child or a cat, like he weighs nothing, and he moans, burrowing in against Bill's chest as he carries him off. He's not even sure where they're going at first, but they end up in Bill's room. It's a nice room, with a nice blue quilt on the bed and some suspicious looking bolts in the headboard. He realizes that he will probably let Bill, the psychotic murderer, tie him up. This is bad and he can't even care. For now Bill cuddles him and covers him in kisses, slowly making their clothes disappear.

"Uh, Byron?" He asks a bit later, both of them naked as the day they were born and rock hard.

"Yeah, baby?" Byron murmurs, licking his neck. Bill pulls away and takes something from the bedside drawer. It's not handcuffs, it's a set of goddamn manacles, and Byron quivers in equal parts terror and lust. It resolves on lust when Bill puts them on himself, blushing.

"I like you an awful lot, Byron. I like you so much I might kill you, so better safe than sorry."

"God, I must be as crazy as you are." He mutters, and gets Bill locked to the headboard. He's gorgeous, all that chained, lunatic power, staring at Byron with those wide, innocent eyes.

"I just wanna keep you safe." He says softly.

"I know." With Bill's hands chained, Byron has free rein to explore his body, slender hands sliding all over him, cataloging sensitive places as he whimpers and squirms, chains clanking. He whines like a puppy when Byron abandons him to find his lube (everyone has some, Bill's is effective and inconspicuous lotion that he probably also uses for its legitimate purpose) and blushes, his eyes huge as Byron slides one slick finger into him. "All right?" Byron murmurs, kissing his neck.

"Y-yes." He whimpers and squirms a little as Byron slowly stretches him, kissing him and gently adding a third finger, fucking him slowly. "Byron..." He whines, "I..." He suddenly fights the manacles, hands forming strangling claws, then slumps back, panting.

"You're chained up to keep from killing me, and I'm about to fuck you. It almost makes sense."

"Please?" Bill spreads his legs, somehow managing to flush more deeply.

"God, yes." Byron sinks into him, and groans and bites him as he fights his bonds again. It's amazing, the little noises he makes, and the way he stares up at Byron, eyes wide. He's incredibly tight, clamping down on Byron and whining as he grinds into him, writhing in his chains before fighting them again. Byron kisses one reaching hand, and Bill melts again, whimpering helplessly as Byron strokes his cock. A moment later he's crying out again, coming so hard his eyes roll back and taking Byron with him. He clings to Bill as he shudders and whines, and finally washes ashore his his head on that broad chest.

"Can I unchain you, or you still feeling kill-y?"

"I think a sandwich is about the only thing I could murder right now."

"Yeah, me too." He kisses Bill softly, and finds the key to the manacles. "Do I even want to know where you got these things?"

"Had 'em made. Said I was a wild animal trainer."

He shudders in fascinated lust, unlocking them. "Jesus."


End file.
